_Dear Dad_:
Here I am in a little hut by the water, writing on the bottom of a
canned meat box--not our label, for I gave Billy a bit of wholesome
advice as to packing foods, which he accepted on the ground that mine
was expert testimony--a tallow candle flickering at my side, and the
hoarse booming of bullfrogs outside furnishing an obligato to my
thoughts. One particular bullfrog who resides here can make more noise
than any Texas steer that ever struck Chicago. It isn't always the
biggest animal that can make the loudest rumpus, as I sometimes fear you
think. I simply mention this in passing that you may see that all the
Graham philosophy isn't on one side of the house.
As a spot for rest this place has even Harvard skinned to death. It is
so quiet here--when the frogs are out of action--that you can hear the
march of time. Besides Billy Poindexter and our guide, Pete Sanderson, I
don't believe there's another human being within a hundred miles. It's a
great change from the Waldorf-Astoria, where you couldn't walk into the
bar without getting another man's breath. The commissary department is
different, too. The canned goods Billy bought are as bad as yours, dad,
upon my soul, while as for fish, there's nothing come to the surface yet
but hornpouts, and they'll do for just about once.
We have fried salt pork for a change and Pete makes biscuits that would
make excellent adjuncts to deep sea fishing tackle. Altogether, this is
great preparation for the packing-house, for I shall be so hungry by
July 15 that I'll do anything to get a square meal. By the way, you
haven't said anything on the subject of board--whether I could live at
home on a complimentary meal ticket or be landed in a boarding-house and
made to pay. I am going to write to Ma on this subject, for I think she
is a good deal stronger on the fatted calf business than you.
I think you would like to meet Pete Sanderson, for he's a veteran of the
Civil War with a pension for complete disability, which he was awarded a
little while ago. There isn't anything the matter with Pete except a few
little scars, which he came by in a curious manner. It seems that he was
examined by the pension board down at Bangor a few weeks back for
complete paralysis. His home doctor swore that Pete couldn't move nor
feel, and two strapping sons brought him to the office in their arms.
The other doctors punched and pounded him nearly to a jelly, but Pete
never yipped. As a last resort they jabbed him with pins in a dozen
different places, yet he didn't budge. Complete paralysis, they
declared, but they didn't know that Pete had been stuffed so full of
opium that he couldn't see nor feel, either. But he says he helped just
as hard to save the nation as any one else, and ought to be recognized.
At any rate his case is quite as worthy as that of the man who visited a
Washington pension agency and sought government aid on the ground that
he had contracted gout from high living, due to his profits on army
contracts.
Pete is a great hand to spring stories of the war on us, and some of
them are pretty good. One he tells about the chaplain of the ---- Mass.,
when that regiment was lying on the Rappahannock or Chickahominy, or
some other river during the summer of '62. It seems that the chaplain
was acting as postmaster for the men, and had been much bothered by
requests for the mail, which had got tangled up with the Rebs somewhere.
One hot afternoon he allowed to himself that he'd like a good snooze
free from interruption, so he affixed to the front of his tent a placard
that read thus:
CHAPLAIN DOESN'T KNOW
WHEN THE MAIL WILL
ARRIVE.
This worked like a charm, and the reverend soldier had a fine sleep and
came out several hours later, greatly refreshed in body and mind. He was
just a bit surprised to find a row of grinning privates sitting outside
his canvas residence, their eyes fixed on his warning in so noticeable a
fashion that he himself turned to look at it. There, to his horror,
mixed with amusement--for he was a very human sort of chaplain--he found
that some wag had got at his card so that it now read:
CHAPLAIN DOESN'T KNOW
WHEN THE MAIL WILL
ARRIVE, AND
DOESN'T GIVE A DAMN.
I merely mention this anecdote as evidence that a man cannot always be
judged by what appear to be his deeds, as you seem to think, and that
the devil often gives him a side wallop when he's engaged in perfectly
innocent recreation.
Thanks to your kind little remembrance I shall be able to be officially
introduced to Milligan on the 15th. I note that, through your customary
forethought, the check is just sufficient to land me in Chicago with
eleven cents in my pocket, provided I practice strict economy _en
route_. Permit me to compliment you on being the most skillful promoter
of labor any son ever had.
I have racked my brain in vain to think what I could have said in the
letter of the Fourth of July to arouse your encomiums. Your assertion
that it "said more to the number of words" than any letter you ever
received from me suggests that it was brief. As it was written on the
Fourth, a day that, as a good American, I always celebrate, its brevity
may be accounted for. The same explanation, however, will scarcely
answer for the condensed power of expression you note.
By the way, Poindexter isn't going to marry old Conway's widow, spite
her millions. I quizzed him about it and he finally put me wise. "Yes, I
could have married her," he said. "In fact, we agreed, but I squirmed
out of it. The truth is I proposed by mail--I didn't have the nerve to
do it face to face--and she accepted me on a postal card. Her evident
economy was a bit too much for me."
I've done a lot of thinking (this word is not written very plainly, but
it _is thinking_ and nothing else) since I have been in the woods. Billy
says I only think I'm thinking, but he's a cynic. There's been little to
do but think. The hunting is worse than the fishing and the only thing
I've bagged is my trousers. The sum total of my thoughts seems to be a
few resolutions. Although I know resolutions are not ripe till Jan. 1,
I've had time to make them here and I'll have plenty of chance to get
accustomed to them before I write them down in the Russia leather diary
that I know you will be glad to include among my Christmas gifts.
My resolutions may not be original, they may not even be good ones, but
such as they are I am going to write them out for you, for you have
often told me that it was every man's duty to himself to set himself a
goal and mark out the course by which to reach it. For this and a
perfect wealth of other advice I can never thank you enough. Perhaps,
however, the knowledge that I am really taking life seriously, as shown
by my resolutions, will be some recompense to you for the midnight oil
you have burned in the coinage of succinct sayings and meaty metaphors.
(I flatter myself that is pretty well expressed, although my English
professor would object, as he often did, to my employment of trade terms
as illustrations and similes.)
The stain on this sheet of paper is due to Poindexter, who shied a
slice of fat pork at my head while I was writing. That was yesterday and
he absolutely refused to let me finish my letter. He said a man who
couldn't find anything better to do in the woods than write was several
unpleasant sounding things. As he emphasized his remarks by war-whoops,
Comanche dances and the beating together of tin plates, I was forced to
forsake my literary pursuits till this morning. Billy is asleep. He
absolutely refused to rise without a pick-me-up and, as our canoe was
upset last night, we lost all our camp utensils, including that
indispensable adjunct to camp life, the pick-me-up.
Billy is up and insists that we must go to the nearest settlement for a
new camp kit. He misses the splendid assortment of pick-me-ups with
which we started out and swears he won't know north from south till he
gets one. The resolutions will have to wait till we return.
July 13.
We did not get back till to-day. We found a fine collection of camp
necessities at the settlement and what we selected proved such a heavy
burden that we were unable to start on the return trip till this
morning. Billy is asleep again. I never knew he was such a heavy
sleeper. It must be the bracing air of the woods. In Cambridge he had
the reputation of never sleeping.
I have re-read the resolutions and I think it best not to send them to
you until I am out of the woods. Surveyed in the light of this
particular morning they seem to need as many amendments as the
Constitution of the United States.
Just a word of warning not to be surprised when I show up for work in
hunting costume. I was compelled to leave all my other clothes in New
York for safe keeping. Storage rates are very high there; the tickets
call for a payment of $150. I shall call at the Waldorf on my way
through the city and shall get any letters--with enclosures--that may be
there.
Your hopeful son,
P.
P.S. Do you think that when a man finds he is catching two fish on one
hook every time he hauls in his line it is time for him to stop using
bait? Billy assures me that it is.
LETTER No. VI.
_The seat at his father's mailing desk does not appear especially
comfortable to the Junior Graham, if we may judge by the tone of his
correspondence._